“Sawyer, this view is amazing! I can’t… it’s stunning,” I say in awe as I look out at the lake. It comes out more choked than I hoped, and he turns toward me, posture stiffening with awareness. I do my best to keep my gaze out toward the horizon, attempting to bring my traitorous emotions under control.
“Stunning” he murmurs, a look of concern creasing his eyebrows. The warm rasp of his tone is like you hear in movies, when the guy is looking at the woman and she isn’t paying attention, when his eyes go all soft and adoring and his heart beats only for her. The adoration every woman wants to receive, whether they like to admit it or not.
And you need to be firmly in the “or not” category. No stomach flips, no tingles, no heart skips. Not allowed. Can’t do it. Not today.
Really the only safe course of action is to pretend I didn’t hear him and change the subject. As expected, or feared, his eyes are already on me when I turn to face him and the heat of his gaze cuts right through my mental haze. It takes all my willpower to not lean into him for comfort. He continues to look at me with that heated look for another moment before his whole body softens and he gives out a low chuckle.
“You heard me Babydoll,” he says, settling into a confident stance while shooting me one of his pantie melting smirks. “Stunning.”
Of course my traitorous, wanton vagina just has to stand up and wave its arms in the air like an inflatable tube man at a car dealership in response.
Freakin hussy.
There really is no arguing with this man when he throws that look around. I refuse to let him see the effect his words are having on me, so I throw him an eye roll and a rueful smile.
“So, Sawyer… no last name…” I say, twirling my hand motioning for more.
“McGrath” he chuckles.
“So, Sawyer McGrath. Tell me about yourself. I admit, I really know almost nothing about you besides your love of Disney Bromances. Tell me a story,” I say, settling back against the wall.
“A story huh? Okay, let’s see,” he looks out over the water for a moment before starting his story. “My dad was a car guy. Well, he was an ‘anything with a motor’ guy. There was always a car, bike, ATV, or anything in some state of disassembly or reassembly; I could never really tell which one though. He was always tinkering. I started to hang out in the garage with him before I could walk. As soon as I could learn the names of the tools, I was helping him work on his projects. He was so patient, always answering every one of my ten billion questions, always showing me how to do something no matter how many times he’d shown me before.”
“He bought me my first bike when I was ten. A little orange dirt bike. He had an old pan head he’d restored, and we used to go for rides around the neighborhood together. I knew from that first ride that I was meant to be on a bike. That feeling… even then I knew it’s unlike anything else,” he goes quiet again, seemingly lost in thought. I let him drift for a moment before bringing him back.
“Sounds like your dad was pretty amazing,” I say quietly.
“Yeah, he was,” he takes another pause, “he died when I was eleven. Cancer. My mom told me a few years later he had been fighting it for a while, but it finally got the best of him. He tried to keep it from us kids as long as he could; and I suppose I never wanted to see that he started to spend fewer hours in the garage that last year. He was a mountain of a man, but I’ll never forget how small he looked, lying in that bed, just before the end,” he ends quietly; almost like the story crept up on him. He’s fiddling with one of his rings as he looks down, lost in what I’m sure is a dark room with beeping equipment and a quiet body under heavy covers.
“Sawyer, I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching out to hold and still his hands. He looks down before offering me a small smile, slipping a heavy silver ring from his finger.
“This was his you know,” he says showing me the ring. “He had it made from the first engine he blew up as kid; drilled out the block himself and wore it as a reminder to know his limits. He’s the reason I became a mechanic. Ma always said she wanted me to be a lawyer or some shit,” he gives a rueful chuckle at that. “I was never meant for a three-piece suit. Dad taught me to work with my hands and that’s what I’ve always done. I’ve done my best to follow in his footsteps, but the boots always seem a little too big.”
Another heavy silence descends, but this time it is not an awkward one, just pensive. Both of us looking out over the water, not saying anything for fear of breaking the delicate balance we have found, enjoying the touch of our hands. Unwilling to let go of him, I twine our fingers together, giving him a little squeeze. He starts running small circles over the back of my hand with his thumb without looking up.
After a long moment, he gives my fingers a squeeze and clears his throat. “So… I can’t remember the last time I talked about my dad. That count as a story for you?” he asks, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
“I wish I could have met him,” I muse.
“He would have loved you,” he says with a soft smile.
“What about your mother?”
“Oh, Ma is still alive and kickin’. She’s actually still in the house we grew up in back in New Jersey,” he says with a small smile on his lips.
“I lost both my parents, car crash. It was a few years ago now,” I’m not sure why I decided to share that little tidbit, but it feels… necessary. He gives my hand another squeeze and mumbles an apology, but I brush him off.
“It’s alright. It’s in the past and we were never that close. It was rough for a bit, but my sister and I made it through,” I say with a shrug.
“What about Evan’s dad? Was he in the picture?” he asks. Of course he asks about that, it’s only natural. But it's the one topic I don’t want to touch with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole.
“Nope,” I respond, popping the ‘P’ in the word; hoping the curt response will be enough to keep him away from the topic.
“Come on,” he chides, dragging out the phrase. “I pulled out an honest to god story for you, what happened to the guy?”
I pull my hand from his taking a step down the wall. “Leave it alone Sawyer,” I snap. I don’t want to bring him into this, all I want is for him to be left in the past where he belongs.
“Oh, touched a nerve,” Sawyer says, remorse evident in his tone but I can tell he’s still trying to play it off. I don’t want anything to do with where this is going. I turn away and look back out over the lake. He steps closer, coming behind me, and his hands braced against the wall on either side of me, caging me in. I feel the heat of him against my back and my spine immediately stiffens, my breath catching. My heart starts racing, I can’t breathe, my mind sluggish to process what’s happening. I’m restrained, caged, controlled all over again. My stomach drops as panic settles in my belly, every muscle in my body tense and vibrating.
Scrunching my eyes closed against the panic, I take a deep, shuddering breath to calm my racing heart. The warm scent of pine and the sweet freshness of spring air mixed with a hint of something so distinctly Sawyer flood my senses. I feel him straighten, still there, boxing me in but not pressed against me. I take another deep breath, focused on the overwhelming scent of him, letting it wash over me and ground me. This is real. This is tangible, this man, this moment. This is true.